Thinking of a master plan
‘Cause ain’t nothing but sweat inside my hand
So I dig into my pocket, all my money is spent
So I dig deeper, but still coming up with lint
So I…start my mission, leave my residence
Thinking, “How could I get some dead presidents?”
I need money; I used to be a stick-up kid
So I think of all the devious things I did

This is a journey into a new dimension, a place where all things real are unreal. Truth flows all around you like molten lava and sears your brain. Numbers swirl like vortexes surrounding your cortexes and overtake your mind. You disconnect and become dizzy, so dizzy, the world spins like a thousand records and the DJ scratches, scratches, scratches , until the only thing you know is chaos and cacophony and all you see is color and the only thing you hear is sound.

This is a journey.

This is journey.

Into sound.

Welcome to Wonderland.

Madness abounds ………


PWC Baseline Report – Figure 1: Model population with class utilisation (June 2015)

Well sportsfans here I am and there you and welcome to the wacky new world of welfare reform in the Wide Brown Land, a world in which everything our elected Government plans, plots, schemes, says and does is predicated on the findings of a report written by a bunch of tripped out wild-eyed weirdo’s whacked out on acid or junked up on juice that makes them fly so high that only a shot of Mr Brown might ever bring them down.

The report’s authors are the the Stock Aitken Waterman of the uber-inflated and incredibly over-inflated finance world, Price Waterhouse Coopers, the upright and honest laundry firm so lily white and gleaming that they are the obvious and only choice of  to advise our government  about all things financial.


The report in question is called the Baseline Valuation Report and it’s dated 30 June 2015, which is totally apt for a con job that’s more huge than the Sydney Harbor, because it wasn’t actually commissioned until 4 months later on 14 September and didn’t kick off for another 6 weeks on the 23rd of November.

Capiche? The whole thing was simply a scam from the start.

If only we’d heeded the warnings from the Department of Human Services for whom the report was written maybe we could have cut it off at the pass.


We didn’t though, and nether did the Australian Government or the  Department of Social Services  under its control and in its thrall, so now we find ourselves stuck in this strange nether world where every decision that the jesters in charge of our nation’s circus make is based on the scientific mathematical actuarial modelling of the Baseline Valuation Report.

Which is somewhat of a problem, because the report’s findings are wrong.

No, that’s not right – the findings are not just wrong – they’re absolutely wildly misleading, and knowingly, willfully and deliberately so.

And Australia’s entire welfare policy debate is being predicated upon them.

Something’s very, very rotten in the land of golden soil sportsfans.

How doth our Government deceive thee punters? Let me count the ways

Start at the beginning.

The first and most fundamental element of the scam is the baseline count, because if it’s wrong then so is every number that follows.

Let me give you a simple and easy to understand example.

You send your kid out to the shop with instructions to buy a carton of milk, a loaf of bread, a box of cornflakes and a jar of jam, and you hand them a hundred dollar note and tell them to make sure they bring back the change.

The milk costs $3 and so does the bread and the jam, and the cereal costs $4, so all up the kid should be spending 3 + 3 + 3 + 4 = $13, and therefore our of a $100 you should get $87 change from the nipper when they get back home with the goods, and you’ll be going absolutely ballistic if they hand you anything less.

So if they return with only $37 and when questioned start carrying on like pork chops protesting their innocence and swearing that they didn’t spend a cent of lollies or slip any of the change into their pocket you’ll disregard their pleas as outright lies, and apply the most heavy-handed form of discipline in your moral arsenal to them won’t you?

But what if you’d only actually given them 50 bucks, and knew it, and were simply putting the blame on your kid to hide the fact that you’d dropped $50 on the pokies that afternoon from your better half, and were pushing the blame onto the powerless little punk who was now grounded and bawling her eyes out in her room?

You’d be an absolute piece of sh*t wouldn’t you? No parent would do that. It would be like a government lying to it’s people. It just couldn’t happen.



The PWC report is based on that $100 note.

Every single number, every single calculation, every single conclusion in the Baseline Valuation Report has been worked out on the basis that every single Australian is receiving some form of welfare.

All 23.9 million of us.

It’s a lie.

We’re not.

Less than half of the good citizens of the wide brown land do not, have not, and never will receive a cent in hand outs from the Government, and the authors of the PWC report know it.

For the love of pizza they even admit it!


But despite their admissions, the report’s authors don’t correct their dodgy initial assumptions, and the Government stays tight lipped with its arms folded across its chest too, and the numbers start off crook and poison flows through every single thing that follows and the a fraud is perpetrated on every single man and woman who stands up at and sings Advance Australia Fair whenever and wherever its sung.

Don’t despair about the fact that you’re Government’s lied through its teeth to you though sportsfans, because there’s some bloody good news too.

We’re all going to live until we’re 110!

Life – be in it today!



Yes that’s right Australia, Price Waterhouse Cooper and the Turnbull Government have just passed laws that will ensure that you, the missus, the kids and your mates will live until you’ve smashed a century and live for a decade more.

You bloody beauty!

There’s one problem though punters. Our sudden legislatively prescribed 25% in life expectancy is going to result in a huge blow out to the nation’s welfare bill, but never fear for our intrepid Social Services Minister and his bean-counting novelist mates at PWC saw it coming, and have already put preventative measures in place.

They’re going to drug test dole bludgers and cut them off benefits if the child-abuse victim bastards can’t bloody straighten themselves out and join the drug free world like normal people and a get themselves a goddamn job.

What’s that? There aren’t any jobs?


There’s always work for those who want it.

The pharmaceutical industry is always looking for people to flog their magnificent products to Doctors on commission. And Price Waterhouse Cooper are always seeking entrepreneurial types who can turn a 4 thousand dollar ounce of cheaply manufactured flu medicine into 2800 packets of point one of a gram of crystals sold at $50 bucks a pop and turn a 350% profit.

These are the type of business orientated, right thinking people this country needs. Men and women who can turn rancid bull dust into gold. Good folk who can inflate things by a factor of five without even blinking their eye.

Hard working, right-minded Australians who can help us reduce our projected welfare bill of $160 billion down to $4.8 trillion.

What’s that? A hundred and sixty billion is actually less than just under five trillion?

Get off the grass.

See I told you all these lazy dole bludgers were on it.

But we’ll sort them out.

Don’t you worry about that.



Bereaved Aussie Battlers, Dole Bludging Junkies and Politicians Who Lied Through Their Teeth and Kick Widowed Workers in the Guts – What the Government is Not Telling You About the Welfare Reform Bill – And Why Its Not Drug Addicts It’s Really Going to Hurt

You’re an average Australian battler. A good person, never been in trouble with the law in your life, worked hard at the factory job you’ve had since you left school, raised 3 kids who’ve all got jobs – your daughter went to Uni, first in the family, she’s a teacher now – have 7 fantastic grandkids, you’re only 2 years from retirement, can’t wait, life’s great.

Then one night the Devil’s Dancer slips in through the window and lays his hand on her head, and the next morning you wake up and reach over to give her a dawn hug before work as you have for the past 40 years and she’s not there. You call her name. No answer. So you get up and look around the house. Nothing. Then you notice the dunny door’s shut. She must be in there. You call her name. and then call it again. Nothing.  You knock on the door. Silence. So you open the door. And there she is. Dead on the floor.

It was a heart attack the government doc tells you a couple of days later, but you hardly hear her and the words are just jumbled in the haze. Everything was so good just a few days before, but now your life’s fallen apart and you can’t even remember your own name and you don’t know what day of the week it is, or even what year.

You use the money you’d been saving to take her on a cruise at Christmas to pay for the funeral. Two years with a carton of stubbies on weekend so you could stash the 50 bucks a week away and take her on the trip of a lifetime, now its gone in a day, and so’s she. You bury your wife on a rainy Friday morning.

On Monday you go back to work. There’s a job to be done, and you don’t want to let the boss and your workmates down. It’s what you do, who you are, an average Australian bloke who wants to do the right thing. A bloke who for the first time in his life feels all alone.

Just before smoko you drop a band saw and nearly take off your mate next to you’s foot. By lunchtime you’ve cut two jobs the wrong size, dropped a box full of screws and spilled them across the factory floor, and forgotten to put the safety on the nail gun and nearly taken out a blokes eye.

The foreman comes over and asks if he can have a word. He’s a good bloke, you’ve known him thirty years, he came to the funeral and his missus helped cook for the wake. He says its probably best if you take a few weeks off work. Your mind’s somewhere else at the moment he tells you, and as much as you protest you know he’s right. Money’s a worry though because you used up all your sickies and your holiday pay when you had that cancer scare a couple of months ago and had to get the radium treatment.


Don’t worry, the foreman says, the Government’s got this bereavement leave payment scheme just for situations like this. He tells you that Bill on the other line claimed it when his son died in the bike accident last year and he had to take a couple of months off work to get his wife through it after she had the breakdown. Its not much he says, only about 400 a week, but at least it’ll be enough so you can pay the bills while you’re dealing with this sh*t hand you’ve been dealt mate.

You thank him, hand up your overalls and set off for the Centrelink office. It’s the first time in your life you’ve been near the joint, so you have to ask directions from some young bloke when you get off the train, but eventually you find it and bowl up to the counter. apologise to the young woman on the counter for bothering her, and setting your pride to one side explain why you’re there.


She tells you that the Government’s made changes to the Bereavement Allowance, Sir, and hands you an application form for Jobseeker Payment, which she explains is the dole. You tell her you’ve got a job, and don’t need another one, the boss just says that you need a bit of time off to deal with your grief and get your head together, and he’s right, but you’ve run out of paid leave because you had to get cancer treatment not long back.

‘There’s no Bereavement Allowance for average Australian workers anymore Sir’ the nice young women tells you, ‘The Government stopped it last month. Now it’s only for people on welfare’.


You look at her blankly as your heart sinks. It’s not her fault, she’s just the person on the counter and doesn’t make the decisions, but you can’t stop yourself from asking


‘It was all the druggies fault Sir’ she says, reading from a press release issued by the Minister for Social Services. ‘They were all on the dole and using taxpayer’s money – your and mine, Sir! – to buy their drugs. Most of them had been doing it for 15 years and the drug habits of each and the average Australian taxpayer had to work 14 years just to feed these stay in bed substance sniffer’s addiction’.




‘It simply had to stop Sir. Something had to be done! So the Government abolished the Bereavement Allowance’.

Your head started to spin. What did your wife dying have to do with drug addicts and the dole? How was cutting the Bereavement Allowance for average Australian workers and giving it only to the lazy junkies on the dole going to fix the problem, even if one existed? And didn’t the foreman tell you that people on the dole COULDN’T get Bereavement Allowance?



None of it made sense, but you felt so tired, just so tired, and figured that the government usually knew what they were doing, and you probably just didn’t understand. So you thanked the nice young woman, left the Centrelink office and, using the last $20 in your pocket caught a cab home, wondering all the way home how you were going to afford to buy the groceries and fretting about the bills you wouldn’t be able to pay and about what your wife would think if you let the electricity and phone people down.

When the cab stopped outside the 3 bedroom home that you’d lived in with your wife for 40 years, each day of them filled with love and life and laughter, you eyes filled with tears. Now it was all gone, and so was she. You handed the cabbie the 20 and told him to keep the change. It wasn’t going to be any good to you.

You turned the key, walked through the door into the silent cold, went to the cupboard, took out the 200ml bottle of  liquid morphine the hospital had given you for the cancer pain that you’d never used because blokes just grin and bear it, and sculled it just like the you had the beer in the yard glass at your 21st all those years before.

Clutching your wedding photo to your heart you lay down on the bed right next to where your wife used to be, turned and kissed the pillow that still bore her scent, closed your eyes and began drifting off to sleep smiling, thinking soon you’d be together again, but it wasn’t you last thought, for just seconds before you entered the beyond another flashed through the slowly drawing blinds of your mind.

“Bloody junkies’.

And then, like a compassionate payment to a bereaved average Australian worker, you were gone.

In a Land Filled With Pineapples First Planted by Prisoners, Justice Has Never Been Other Than an Unjust Elite’s Game – How Disgraced Judge Angelo Vasta Was Protected From Prosecution By Hands That Once Fed Him Turned by Turpidity into Paws the Deluded Perjurer Now Bites

The Angelo Vasta story is a long and torturous tale of everything and nothing and a sum of a multitude of the things in between.

It’s a biblical tale of deadly sins and layers of lies that, although centered around one man’s venal stupidity and fragile avarice-driven ego, shines a bright and inquisitive light down into the deep layers of the peat-bog of state and judicial corruption that formed the bedrock of the State of Queensland, and in all well-reasoned likelihood probably still do.

One day soon I’ll tell it to you, but right now it’s 5.00 in the morning and the dawn’s about to break, and this writer must rest his head upon the pillow before it becomes overtaken by Sol’s shards.

As I depart and step into the land of Nod I will leave you with a wee vignette about men who suffer from persecution complexes that blind them, and politicians in their pay, and men who are held to be honorable and esteemed but are really just rich folk who are rotten to the core.

The hour is late so I must keep it short,  paint the piece in pictures in the trust you will work them out.

A son of a Mad Hatter who dwells in a House of Broken dreams and sustains himself by supping at the public teat is approached by a man who the Hatter once did harm. The two men hold discussions behind shut doors and a deal is struck, although the consideration of their private contract remains behind the doors and unknown.

The Hatter’s child lays a treaty upon the table of the Broken Dreamed House.

In part it alleges this:


So the tired writer turns to the commissioned inquiry’s report that it the object of such vitriol and the target of the Hatter’s son’s scorn.

This is what the writer finds, and below it are his thoughts.

And with that, writing in reverse upward from the end to the start, I bid you adieu, and wish you the sweetest of sweet dreams.


The Commission of Inquiry found that Angelo Vasta had lied in the course of making sworn declarations that formed the basis of his statement of claim taken in a defamation proceeding against a satirical magazine named Matilda.

It found as a matter of fact that denials that Vasta made in evidence in the course of the matter about he and his wife sharing a taxi ride with two journalists named Campbell and Goff were false, and that he had known this to be the case when he gave the sworn evidence to the fellow judge who had carriage of the matter.



That finding of and in itself raises serious questions about Vasta’s character and his suitability to remain on the bench – after all, if a judge will lie to suit his own ends, what guarantee is their that he will not make false findings to suit his or others? – but what came next rang alarm bells and sirens.

The Commissioners found that Vasta had willfully and deliberately lied to their Commission of Inquiry too.

Pause and think about that for a moment.

A Judge of the Supreme Court of Queensland had appeared before a lawfully enacted and constituted Commission of Inquiry, formed at his own request and presided over by three of the most eminent judicial figures in the State’s history – one of them a retired Chief Justice of the High Court of Australia – looked the trio in the eye, and told them bald-faced lies.

If you or I had done it we would have been placed in handcuffs, sent down, and locked away until tried for our impertinence and flagrant criminal dishonesty. At the conclusion of our trial, after the inevitable guilty verdict had been found and tabled and the gavel had been struck, we would have been placed in a prison cell and transported to a small, cold concrete cell without windows where the seasons would pass us by as our skin became sallow and our hair turned slowly to grey, desperately attempting to hold on to our last vestiges of sanity and freedom by summoning up in our mind images of that little blue tent that once we called the sky.

All animals may well be born equal, but in the eyes of the men who sentence other men to deprivation, defilement and on occasions even death there are animals that are good and animals that are bad, and though the good may stray from the path and wander into the paddocks filled by the bad they must not be permitted to stray so far that they fall of the edges of the cliff, for if they fall so far and hard that their inners become exposed so too may the immutable truth that they were always equal inside.

And so the erstwhile judges of all things fair and true, three men who had long ago sworn an oath to apply justice equally to the pineapple punter citizens subject to the Pineapple State’s laws pursed their blood-stained lips, and shut their failing eyes, and placed their gnarled hands over their ears and in soft voices pronounced in unison that they could not cast judgement upon matters they could neither hear nor see, and when their words sailed across the winds and in through the windows of the House of Broken Dreams not a soul among the leather-perched many whispered ‘why did you not simply ask?’

That’s the true story of how and why disgraced judge Angelo Vasta, the deemed and damned liar, was never called to his account for his criminal sins in a court of law, and the reason he was neither charged with nor faced trial for his raft perjuries and belligerently deliberate self-serving lies.

The men who tried him in a court of his choosing may have loathed him, but they too also lived lies.

In a land that was once a penal colony, filled with pineapples first planted by prisoners, justice has never been anything other than an unjust elite’s game.

Don’t you worry about that.




Robbie Katter Attempts to Pull a Rort That Would Put More Than $20 Million into a Disgraced Ex-Judge That His Dad Sacked’s Back Pocket if He Can Pull it Off – But Isn’t It a Crime to Deliberately Mislead Parliament? – Perhaps Angelo Vasta Can Give Us Some Advice – After All He’s Got Plenty of Form in the Game


In March this year the member for Mt Isa and leader of Katter’s Australia Party (Qld), Robert Karl Ignatius Katter tabled the private members bill excerpted above in the Queensland House of Broken Dreams and is seeking to have it passed into law.

The tabled bill is titled the Honourable Angelo Vasta (Reversal of Removal) Bill 2017, and if enacted it would reverse the 1989 decision made by the Queensland Parliament made to remove a judge named Angelo Vasta from the Supreme Court bench and strip him of his office, or in laymen’s terms sack him and throw him out the door.

I will explain more about Vasta’s copping the chop and the circumstances surrounding it in some detail later, but for now all you need to know is that it happened,  it was based on the recommendation of three judges (including a former Chief Justice of the High Court) contained in a 248 page report they wrote after taking 6 weeks of evidence, a majority of members  of the House of Broken Dreams voted for it – including Bob Katter, the father of this private members bill’s sponsor – and that Vasta was then and remains still spewing about axing, and has been trying to get his job back ever since.

Now if it were true that every Pineapple Lander was treated equally under the law then Vasta would simply be pissing on his shoe in the dark thinking he had a sh*t show in hell of being reinstated to a job that he copped the pink slip from almost three decades ago. But E-quality is something that you hope to get from your dealer at the doof-doof festival when you swap him a tonne note for a couple of happy pills, not something lads and lassies from the better side of the tracks (the Geebung side) ever expect to find when circumstances like being sprung rooting the boss’s daughter in his wife’s private dunny at work force them out the door and into the unfair dismissal courts.

And so the sly rooter gets 21 days to start an action to get their job back, but the crooked Judge is allowed 28 years, because that’s exactly what this private member’s bill-sh*t of Katter Junior’s is – a reinstatement application made for and on behalf of the disgraced judge Mr Angelo Vasta – and don’t be fooled into ever thinking it’s anything else.

If it is passed into law it will render Vasta’s removal from office invalid, and create the curious legal fiction that your memory of him being stripped of his role as a judge all those years ago is just a trick of the imagination, for it never in fact happened at all.

Don’t believe me son?

Then look over there!

That’s Angelo Vasta sitting right in front of you on the Supreme Court bench, but don’t blink whatever you do or you’ll miss it, for now you see him now you don’t because suddenly in our strange journey through truth and space and time its the 8th of January 2011 and it’s the old crook’s seventieth birthday and statutory retirement time, and that’s him in the corner wearing the party hat at his farewell soiree surrounded by all his friends, or at least the couple of them that aren’t in jail or were blocked by security at the door because they have been.

Fast forward again and we hurtle through the temporal insensible vacuum back to the year 2017, and I guess you are wondering about all those strange numbers and bits of paper that looked like hundred dollar bills that you saw flashing past as we traveled across time.

No I didn’t slip acid into your cup of tea in the refreshment room at the Tardis train station Tommy, those things you saw were real, they’re all the oarts of the back payment bill we punters of the Pineapple Land are gunna get landed with if Roberto the Hatter pulls a miracle and resurrects the once Great (in his own mind at least) Angelo, the judicial carcass staked, shaked and baked my Katter’s Dad and his mates.

It’s biblical in many ways isn’t it?

God creates the world and all that’s in it, and it’s beautiful for about five seconds, but then a snake enters through the back door bearing all that glitters and tells the suckers that its gold, and the fools bite and in an instant the world becomes filled with sin and before you know it the sinners have swiped the keys to the Kingswood and the bad buggers are running the whole Earthly show.

So God sends down his only begotten son to save them. The kid’s names Jesus, and there’s a big hullabaloo in a horse stable when he arrives and then for a couple of decades he disappears from sight. We hear the odd whispered word from the North that during the working week the young bloke’s studying hard and learning his trade, and that on weekends he’s dazzling them at fullback for the Jerusalem Donkeys under 17’s, but by and large God’s boy lives a quiet life and few are at that stage aware of what ‘s to come.

They don’t have to wait long though because before he’s reached his thirties young Jesus bursts into the public arena like Billy Slater off a short ball slipped from Cam Smith, and suddenly the young bloke’s being spotted all over town and his mug shot is featured in every woman’s magazine in the land.

It’s not because he’s a looker that they love the lad, even though he is, because just as blokes didn’t buy Playboy for the pictures the fans who are buying the magazines with God’s son on the cover are rabidly reading the articles.

The articles of faith, especially the ones where Jesus is spruiking harder than the Demtel man flogging a product he has that is so damn good at getting the stains out of things that you can even use it to wash away sin. All you have to do is buy into his hype and believe in the miracles he’s promising and the kingdom is yours for the taking.

To prove it the young aspiring world leader sets off on a smile and shoeshine tour of the State, and everywhere he goes he’s doing amazing things like touching lepers and and blessing cheating tax collectors and washing cheap whores feet, and in no time he’s got the masses enthralled to the point that they’re eating out of his hand and will believe just about any tale that he wishes to tell.

The rising star’s hubris grows with each round of applause he receives. He is the Son of God, and he is omnipotent. There is nothing he cannot do.

It is time to perform his next miracle.

He will raise a man from the dead.

Of course that dead man’s name was Lazarus, and he was actually dead.

Rob Katter is merely trying to revive the fetid, rotting corpse of a rotten crook who was once upon a time an impersonator who played the role of a judge.

But you can see the similarities in the two stories can’t you?

I just hope someone’s given young Katter the tip about the next step he has to take if he really wants to wash away all his old man’s sin and set things with Angelo straight.

Setting the allegory and the metaphor and all attempts at mirth aside for a second though, let’s take a proper look at the consequences of the private member’s bill that Rob Katter is proposing, sponsoring and spruiking, because the KAP leader is not being completely transparent about would transpire if on the off chance he was to pull of the miracle and have in enacted as law.

In fact he’s not being honest at all.

The truth is that the Honourable Angelo Vasta (Reversal of Removal) Act 2017 bill is as crooked as the bloke whose name it bears, which means that its more crooked than a dog’s hind leg and thrice as bent again .

Angelo Vasta is not Honourable, and has no right whatsoever to be referred to as such. Quite to the contrary, Vasta appears upon any reasonable read of the Commission of Inquiry report to be thoroughly dishourable, and his conduct subsequent to his sacking firmly reinforces this view.

It is entirely debatable whether Katter is honourable either, and if you based your opinion solely on the explanatory notes that the MP has tabled with this bill you would have to argue in the alternative, for the contentions made in the note are misleading to the point that a bloke would be surely be considered reservedly polite if he were to describe them as complete and utter bullshit.

To illustrate the veracity of this rather forceful contention that I’ve just made –  from which a cynic may wrongly or rightly draw an inference that Katter is a liar and a cheat – I draw your attention to the explanatory notes in question, in particular to the claims that Katter makes under the heading Estimated cost for government implementation.


Robert Katter states that under this heading that if his private members bill is enacted then the costs associated with its implementation are expected to be minor, but like so many members of the House of Broken Dreams,the MP for Mt Isa lies.

If Vasta is restored to the bench – even nominally or for a nanosecond –  he will immediately become entitled to payment of a Supreme Court judges salary from 8 June 1989 (the date of his removal from office) until 8 January 2011 when he reached the statutory retirement age of 70.

Vasta would also be entitled to payment of the allowances that he would have been paid during these 21.5 years, and compounding interest would be applied to the salary and allowances that he ceased being paid when he was removed from the bench.

Given that the current remuneration package of a Supreme Court judge is in excess of $440 000 per year, at even the most conservative of non-actuarialised estimates the adjusted sum that the Queensland taxpayer will become liable to pay to Vasta if the bill is enacted into law will be well in excess of $15 million.

Minor costs indeed Mr Katter. If your name is Scrooge McDuck.

But wait, there’s more.

Vasta will also qualify for payment of a judicial pension pegged at 60% of his annual salary, which affords him another $270 000 or so a year prior to retrospective interest being applied, and it will be payable from the date of his now imagined retirement from office in 2011.

What this means is that the State – that’s you and I suckers – will be liable for payment of a further $3 million or so to Vasta in back paid pension entitlements and accrued interest

It doesn’t stop there though sportsfan, for if Katter’s bill becomes law then the punters of the Pineapple Land be not only be required to continue dipping into our collective pockets to pay Vasta’s pension for the term of his natural life, but if he drops off the perch before his missus does we will have to continue throwing cash at the crook beyond the grave. ,

I kid you not, and urge you to take a Captain Cook at Part 2 of the Judges (Pension and Long Leave) Act 1957 if you have any doubts about the matter that require dispelling before you accept that the mail I’m giving you is correct weight and totally true.

Now I don’t know how you view the issue, but as the spouse of one feminist and father of two more I find it somewhat remarkable that in these enlightened days of (admittedly still) evolving gender equality a law exists decreeing that a dead Judge’s spouse is entitled to continued payment of half of her husband’s judicial pension (annually adjusted) from the date of his death until the hour that she joins him in the grave.

It’s bloody amazing isn’t it?

(As a brief aside, the retirement of the McMurdo’s must surely be the most lucrative in recorded judicial history, given that their is no provision in the clearly misogynist-designed archaic act that envisages the situation where both partners in the marriage are Supreme Court Judges.

By my reading of the Act this means that when either of Phillip or Margaret die – and I want to be clear that I wish such a fate on neither of them, and sincerely hope that they live long and happy lives –  then the surviving spouse will both continue to receive their own legislated pension AND be entitled to receive 50% of their dearly beloved spouse’s.

If you’ve gotta get old, that’s not a bad way to do it I reckon).

Back to Angelo Vasta, and we haven’t even got to the steak knives yet.

During the course of the 43 days of hearings held in the course of the Commission of Inquiry into Vasta’s suitability to remain a judge that was conducted by three of his eminent fellow jurists – note there were no sheila’s involved, they were all probably in the kitchen making cucumber sandwiches for hubby’s lunch except for Margaret McMurdo – and before and after, Vasta claims to have incurred approximately $1.25 in legal costs, and the Queensland Government – quite rightly in my view – refused his request to pay them.

It’s believed that after Robert Borbidge became Premier in 1996 the National Party led-coalition Government agreed to a secret deal that allowed Vasta to recoup $600 000 of his legal expenses, but it is understood that no actuarial revaluation of the amount of the fees was undertaken, and that $600 000 was paid to Vasta on an ex-gratia basis that did not apportion the sum as reimbursement of the legal fees incurred.

This leaves a hefty but undisclosed portion – or even possibly the entire amount – of the legal fees that Vasta incurred still open to claim, and arguably payable in the event that we enter the twighlight zone and pretend that the crook wasn’t sacked.

So there’s another million or so dollars that we will owe to the newly re-bestowed Honorable Angelo, and when interest is thrown over the top then its a fair guess to say it will end up as around $2 million.

All up then. taking a wild but reasonably informed guess, these ‘minor costs’ that Rob Katter tells us that the State of Queensland will incur if his private members bill to reverse history and turn back time is  enacted in fact amount to in excess of $20 million, payable directly to a bloke we sacked because he was a crook.

Lovely Robert, just lovely.

But hey son, do you reckon you could slip me a minor loan?

Next up – Why Angelo Vasta copped the bullet, and why the crooked judge deserved it

Archie and the Second Bravest Man in History Team Up to Save the Origin Series – and Kevin Walters Coaching Career


Well there you go sportsfans, so it is just like I said it would be, and no bastard can accuse me of crowing after the event for I called the result months ago. That young Cumquat made a folly of youth and ignorantly ignored my sage selection advice in game 1 is now yesterday’s news, and all I’ll say about the matter is that youth is wasted on the young and leave it at that.

‘That’s rather magnanimous of you Archie’ I can hear you thinking, and the temptation’s there to keep you believing it, but the truth is within ten seconds of the full-time whistle blowing the phone rang and when I answered with a mighty ‘Queenslander!’ it was Mrs Cumquat Snr on the end of the phone calling to thank me for clipping her young Kevvie around the ear and knocking some sense into him during our recent secret one on one out the back of the Karaoke Bar at the Bunger, and in the process saving his career.

After I’d talked the lovely old duck out of ringing Gus Gould and nominating me as man of the match, and we’d had a chat about Taking the Pisasale and a few of the things he’s been up to that are yet to hit the papers, Mrs Cumquat asked me if I’d grant her a very special favor and told me that it would mean the world to her if I did.

Would I forgive her young bloke for his Game 1 selection insolence was the ask, and what could I say other than ‘Sure Mrs C, for you it would be my great pleasure’. And so here I am, and there you are, and Mrs Cumquat’s the happiest bird playing the poker machines in Bundamba tonight, and Jonathon Thurston’s just jumped Weary Dunlop on Australia’s Bravest Blokes list, and let me tell you it doesn’t get much better for any digger than being vice-captain on Albert Jacka’s team.



How the hell did JT pull that one off while playing 60 minutes plus with only one arm?

Dead set the great man was having a shocker in the 40 minutes immediately after he copped an elbow while tackling a charging bull and the shoulder went, an absolute bloody shocker. I’ve never seen Thurston play worse; watching him make mistake after mistake as he botched plays and kicks by going a fraction early in an attempt to protect his busted wing was like cutting yourself with broken glass.

It wasn’t his fault. If he came off our bench full of forwards meant that Queensland had only Mickey Morgan to replace him, and that meant we’d be stuffed if any other of backs went down  ‘cos JT was going to be straight on the needle and ice and into a sling if he put his good hand up and surrendered and he knew it.

So like the heroes of the inglorious Gallipoli campaign Jonathon sucked it in and soldiered on, and when Will Chambers copped a knockout blow the whole Pineapple State was saying a silent prayer of thanks that did.

That wasn’t the defining moment of the game though, and as brilliant as it was Great Dane’s winning try wasn’t either.

The real moment of truth, the bullet that changed the Origin world, came about 20 minutes into the second half when the astute footy fan could see JT say to himself ‘F*ck this the shoulder’s rooted anyway and the boys are dead if f I don’t get out of the trench and lead us home.’


Cometh the hour cometh the man.

And JT cometh, at a million miles an hour.

Without and warning, like a Townsville summer’s storm Thurston -who just seconds before shuffling across the Queensland attacking line like a senior citizen and offloading soft-handed lollipop passes to his backs while the Blues defensive line was 5 meters away to prevent their big men from target-smashing his shoulder and ending his night, and his team’s series – he suddenly exploded back to life .

Thirty meters out from the NSW line and with nothing particular happening Thurston suddenly called for the ball, and then from out of nowhere hit the line at tremendous speed. Like a coked-up matador moving faster than the eye can follow he jinked, stepped, dummied, sliced and swerved, and in the space of five seconds JT had carved the seemingly impenetrable NSW defensive line into little pieces, straight up the middle, and had plunged a knife straight into the center of his opposition’s hearts.

The NSW players faces were suddenly drained of color, and their eyes grew wide, as if a ghost has appeared right before them. No, not a ghost, a dreadful, deadly apparition. A palpable tremor of terrible shock and fear shot across their line like a 500 volt current.

Half an hour earlier after seeing how badly Thurston was playing and realising that the number six’s shoulder was absolutely shot,  Coach Daley had quickly formed the conclusion that it was humanly impossible for a one-armed man in such pain and so restricted in movement to present a threat to soldiers in this supreme theater of war, and had order his men to abandon their decade long defensive tactic of triple-team marking Thurston when the Queenslanders had the ball.

He’d redeployed the defenders to a couple of meters either side of the ruck and directed them to double up on the danger men Cronk and Slater, and for the half hour that Thurston spent seemingly all but out of the game it had worked.

Jarred Hayne was playing a floating role across the left hand side of the defense and monstering any Queenslander who dared come near, the backrowers in the middle of the ruck were all over Cronk like flies, and his quickest tackle men were watching and following Slater around the park closer than an ASIO team surveillance team tasked to arrest a terrorist.

Thurston’s injury had allowed Daley to strangle the Maroons main attack men.  He had effectively shut down the remaining 2 of the 3 members of the deadly spine that still had 2 arms and legs down, and prevented them from getting good ball out to the fringes of the ruck, in the process neutering the speed king combination of Chambers and Gagai lurking out on the right, and handcuffing the Boyd/Holmes dynamic debut duo on the left.

The Queensland attack was going nowhere. The game looked in the bag.

It had been a piece of tactical on-the-run genius by Daley, and the NSW coach was trying hard not to smirk as the cameras panned to him in the box.


No-one expected Thurston to rise from the dead and slay them.

No one from south of the border where they still truly believe that Joey Johns is the greatest player in the modern game anyway.

The Turks didn’t expect a bloke to jump into a trench solo and take on a dozen armed to teeth enemy soldiers who were holding his mates captive either, but great men do what ordinary people can’t even imagine., and no matter what the personal cost may be, they will never ever abandon a mate.

That’s what makes them great.

There are lots of very good players on the NSW team, but there aren’t any great ones.

The Blues lost the plot when JT sprung back to life.

You could have written the script about what would happen next, and it did.

In the end JT ran left off a play, his  dazed and confused NSW markers followed, Slater came around the back of the line the other way and entered it to the right, Cronk gave it him, he drew 2 defenders and gave it to Morgan, he threw a brilliant off the ground pass to Gagai and you don’t stop a Great Dane on the fly from 10 yards out so it was 16-all with a few minutes to play.

Then JT lined up the kick from on his wrong side from the sideline, smart men mortgaged their houses and hearts and souls for a stake to bet on him kicking it, he did, Queensland won, Laurie Daley almost cried, and that was all she wrote.

Thank you Archie.

That’s okay Queensland.

It was my pleasure.

One Night in a Hotel Room – A Leopard’s Spots Ignite and Go Boom! – And Just Like Fire Would the Mayor Burns Up – Just Like Archie Said He Would – But Hold the Phone Sportfans – Cos It’s Only Just Begun


Some ill-educated folk say that if you lie down with dogs you get fleas, and then proceed to allege or infer that a whole bunch of my mates are canine’s, and accuse me of scratching  far too much.

Forgive them Lord for they know not what they do, or who they’re really hanging out with sucking prawns at Gambaros and downing flutes of expensive champagne.

Gambaros? Sssshhh. Loose lips sink ships.

And pea-hearted piss head wide boy wannabe wise guys always end up pissing in other people’s waters and turning them poisonous.

Pretentious wannabe big-wig wankers with hidden pasts know the go, but the fools who flock around them in ignorance or out of ambition haven’t got a damn clue, and unlike Archie who surrounds himself with an eclectic coterie of saints, sinners and citizens waiting to be save these nose turn-upping snobs and sanctimonious wannabe whatevers never get the scoops.

They never quite get to their misguided grail either.

Gotta keep your nose to the ground kid, and live in the love of the common people if ya wanna get to those good gates.

Or at least live knowing that you’re back’s safe because you’ve got mates.

It’s not my milieu that are the rabid wretched dogs dear Country Road wearers, We’re just the poor kids from the Geebungs and beyond of every suburb in every town in every city in all the word that the purebred beasts and their mongrel pretender mates bite.


We’re the punters that Jesus called poor in spirit, and promised the kingdom of heaven.

And do you know what?

He was right.

We’re the outsiders trying to climb the stairway to the kingdom by taking the long, hard high road and carrying our kids on our backs as we go.

Yep some of us have sinned along the way.

So f*cking what?

So did St Paul.

It wasn’t our fault. We just got lost along the way down to Damascus, but Grace is Amazing even of she might still have to whore herself as a honey trap princess to Pisa’s of sh*t or their targets so she can feed her kids, and once she found us we stopped being lost and blind and alone, and now that we can see and are no longer afraid we’re going to save Grace too.

Jesus didn’t willingly walk up that hill and die in agony tied to a cross under the blazing sun with a Centurion’s spear in his side so we could leave her alone did he? He didn’t give it all away so we could hang out in the elite boroughs with the hoi polloi and their politician pickpocket boys either


Jesus lived with the sinners. He ate, drank, laughed and prayed with them; he raised poor men who couldn’t afford medical treatment from the dead, hugged and kissed lepers, and washed the feet of wanton women decreed harlots by judges who he warned not to judge them, because one day it was all going to come straight back at them.

Well baby here we are and there are they, and hey and is that the bloke who’s been taking the Pisasale for years in that prison cell, and who are those blokes in the flash suits sprinting out of Ipswich at a hundred miles an hour in every direction now the hour of judgement is upon their false messiah and the end of the long lunch is nigh?

If it’s all a bit too biblical for you Barabbas I’m sorry, but bad luck. Most true life tales of sin and lust and light and dark and usually are, and if you think gardens of good and evil are just a Geebung invention then sunshine it’s time you thought again,

I’ll tell you two things for free on your way to work though.

And pea-hearted piss head wide boy wannabe wise guys always end up pissing in other people’s waters.

Jesus wasn’t the only skinny sportsfan holding a hammer who had things sussed out spot on; another Carpenter did too Karen was her name.

We’ve only just begun.

And if you want a friend in politics, buy a dog.

It’ll bite you too, but at least the first cut’s the deepest.



Where There’s Smoke in Ipswich Often There are Fire, Juvenile Delinquents, Mirrors. and Unanswered Questions Too – Here’s One – What WAS Young Paul Pisasale Doing Out at a Jaycees Dress Up Party at 2.30 in the Morning, Given That the Umpire Had Called Stumps on the Little Chamber of Commerce Kiddies Costume Party at Midnight? – Or At Least That’s What I’m Told


If you don’t like my fire
Then don’t come around
‘Cause I’m gonna burn one down
Yes I’m gonna burn one down